Falling Into You (12 page)

He caught me, of course.
 

He smelled of alcohol, cologne, cigarettes. His arms circled my shoulders and held me in place. The sobs rose and fell within me, brought up by guilt from finding pleasure and comfort, doused by the same.

I let my forehead rest under his chin, just for a moment. Only a moment. Just till I caught my breath. It didn’t mean anything.
 

It’s just a moment of comfort, Kyle.
I found myself talking to him, as if he could hear me.
It doesn’t mean anything. I love you. Only you.

But then he shifted, looking down at me. So, of course, I had to tilt my head up and meet his eyes. Damn his eyes, so soft, so piercing and bright and blue and beautiful. His eyes… they drowned me. Sucked me in. Dark sapphire laced with cornflower blue, sky blue, ice blue so many shades of blue.
 

I fell forward, into him. I tasted Jameson on his breath, heat on my lips, moist soft heat and scouring power of his lips. It was only a moment, the briefest instant of contact. A kiss, an instant of weakness like the inevitable pull of gravity.
 

Awareness rifled through me, struck me like a dagger to the heart.
 

I threw myself bodily backward, out of his arms, away from the drowning comfort of his arms, his lips.
 

“What am I doing?” I stumbled back, back. “What am I doing? What the
fuck
am I doing?” I turned and limped away as fast as I could, barely hanging on to my sanity, barely keeping the guilt from eating me alive.

Colton followed, ran around in front of me and stopped me with his hands on my shoulders. “Wait, Nell. Wait. Just wait.”

I wrenched free. “Don’t
touch
me. That…that was wrong. So wrong. I’m sorry…so sorry.”

He shook his head, eyes boiling with emotion. “No, Nell. It just happened. I’m sorry too. It just happened. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” I was nearly yelling. “How can I kiss you when he’s dead? When the man I love is gone? How can I kiss you when…when I—when Kyle—”

“It’s not your fault. I let it happen too. It’s not your fault. It just happened.” He kept saying that, as if he could see the guilt, the secret weight of awful knowledge.
 

“Stop
saying
that!” The words were torn from me before I could stop them. “You don’t
know
! You weren’t
there
! He’s dead and I—” I chomped down on the last two words.
 

Thinking them, knowing them to be true is one thing; saying them out loud to Kyle’s brother, whom I just kissed, is another.

He was close to me again, somehow. Not touching, but only an inch separating us. That sliver of air between us crackled, sparked and spat.
 

“We’re not talking about the kiss anymore, are we?” His voice throbbed low, wired with passion, understanding.

I shook my head, my only answer for so many things. “I can’t—I can’t—I can’t…”

I could only turn away, and this time Colton Calloway let me leave. He watched me, I could feel his eyes on me. I could feel him knowing my thoughts, delving deep into my secret soul, where guilt and grief festered like an abscess.

I made it to my room, to my bed. My eyes closed, and all I saw was Kyle dying, over and over again. Between the images of his last indrawn breath, I saw Colton. His face growing closer, his mouth on mine.
 

I wanted to cry, to scream, to sob. But I couldn’t. Because if I did, I’d never stop. Never never. There would only be an ocean of tears.
 

Hot heart-blood leaked from my face. From my eyes and my nose and my mouth. Not tears, because those would never stop. This was just liquid heartbreak seeping from my pores.

The mountain of pressure, the weight of grief and guilt…it was all I could feel. It was all I would ever feel. I knew that. I knew, too, that I would learn to be normal once again, someday. To live, to be, to seem okay.
 

Okay would only ever be skin deep, though.

The note was under my pillow. I unfolded it, gazed at it.
 

 
…
And now we’re learning how to fall in love together. I don’t care what any one else says. I love you. I’ll always love you, no matter what happens with us in the future. I love you now and forever.
 

I saw the splotch where my tear had fallen, staining the blue pen-strokes black in a sudden Rorschach pattern. Another wet drop splatted on the paper, just beneath the writing this time. I let it sink in and stain. The slanting downstroke of the ‘Y’ in his scrawled signatures blurred and became blotted.
 

 
Eventually the slow leak stopped and I fell asleep. I dreamed of brown eyes and blue, of a ghost beside me, loving me, and of a flesh and blood man sitting on a dock, drinking whiskey, playing guitar, and remembering an illicit kiss. In the dream, he wondered what it meant. In the dream, he stole into my room and kissed me again. I woke from that dream sweating and shaking and nauseous with guilt.

Part Two

The Present

Colton

Chapter 6: Old Man Jack

Two years later

I’m sitting on a park bench on the edge of Central Park, busking. I’ve got my case on the ground next at my feet, a few bucks as seed money bright green against the maroon velvet. I haven’t busked in months. The shop has been too busy, too many orders, too many rebuilds and custom jobs. But this, the open air and the lack of expectations, this is where I live. Where my soul flies. Like my weekly gig at Kelly’s bar, it’s not about the money, although I usually make a decent chunk of change.
 

It’s about letting the music flow out of my blood and into the guitar, letting it seep through my vocal chords.
 

I’m adjusting a string, tweaking the tuning for my next song. My head is down, tilted to the side, listening for the perfect pitch. I get it, bob my head in approval.

I start in on “I and Love and You” by the Avett Brothers. This is a song that always draws a crowd. It’s the song more than me, really. It’s such brilliant piece of music. So much meaning stuffed into the lyrics. I look up after the first verse and scan the sidewalk in front of me. An older man in a business suit, a phone against his ear, another clipped to his expensive leather belt; A young woman with bottle blond hair in a messy bun, a sticky-faced boy-child gripping her hand, both stopped and listening; a gay couple, young men holding hands, flamboyant, bouffant hair and colorful scarves; three teen girls, giggling, whispering to each other behind cupped hands, thinking I’m cute.

And her.

Nell.
 

I could write a song, and her name would be the music. I could sing, strum a guitar, and her body would be the melody. She’s standing behind the rest of the crowd, partially obscured, leaning against a parking meter, a patchwork-fabric purse slung over one shoulder, pale green dress brushing her knees and hugging her curves, strawberry blond hair twisted into a casual braid and hanging over one shoulder. Pale skin like ivory, flawless and begging to be caressed, kissed.

I’m no saint. I’ve hooked up with other girls since then, but they’ve never been enough. Never been right. They’ve never stuck around long.

Now, here she is. Why? I tried so hard to forget her, but still her face, her lips, her body, glimpsed beneath a wet black dress…she haunts me.
 

She’s biting her lip, worrying it between her teeth, gray-green eyes pinning me to the bench. Shit. For some reason I can’t fathom, that habit, the biting her lip…I can’t take it. I want to throw down the guitar and go over to her and take that perfect plump lower lip into my mouth and not let go.
 

I almost falter at that first meeting of our eyes, but I don’t. I meet her gaze, continue the song.
 

I’m singing it to her, as I reach the final chorus. “I…and love…and you.”
 

She knows. She sees it in my eyes. It’s utter madness to sing this song to her, but I can’t stop now. I watch her lips move, mouthing the words along with mine. Her eyes are pained, haunted.

The person standing in front of her moves, and I see a guitar case resting against her thigh, the round bottom planted on the sidewalk, her palm stabilizing the narrow top. I didn’t know she played.
 

The song ends and the crowd moves away, a few people tossing in ones and fives. The businessman—still on the phone—tosses in a fifty and a business card announcing himself as a record label producer. I nod at him, and he makes the universal “call me” gesture with his free hand. I might call him. I might not. Music is expression, not business.

She approaches, bending at the knees and lifting her guitar case, slides onto the bench next to me. Her eyes never leave mine as she sits, zips open her case, withdraws a beautiful Taylor classical acoustic. She bites her lip again, then plucks a few strings, strums, begins “Barton Hollow”.
 

I laugh softly, and see that the pain has never left her. She’s carried it all this time. I weave my part in around hers, and then I’m singing. The words fall from my lips easily, but I’m barely hearing myself. She plays easily and well, but it’s clear she hasn’t been playing too long. She still glances at her fingers on the fretboard as she switches chords, and she gets a few notes wrong. But her voice…it’s pure magic, dulcet and silver and crystalline and so sweet.
 

We draw a crazy crowd together. Dozens of people. The street beyond is blocked from view by the bodies, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable with the attention. She crosses her leg over her knee, bounces with the rhythm, ducks her head as if wishing her hair was loose so she could hide behind it. She slips up a chord, loses the rhythm. I twist on the bench to meet her eyes, lock gazes and nod at her, slow down and accentuate the strumming rhythm. She breathes deep, swelling her breasts behind her Taylor, and finds the rhythm with me.

The song ends, eventually, all too soon. I half-expect her to rise and put away the guitar and float away again, without a word exchanged, just gone again as mysteriously as she appeared. She doesn’t, though. Thank god for that. She glances around at the crowd, chews her lip, glances at me. I wait, palm flat on the strings.

She takes a deep breath, plucks a few strings, idly, as if deciding, then nods to herself, a quick bob of the head as if to say, “yeah, I’m gonna do it.” Then she begins to strum a tune I know I know, but can’t place. Then she sings. And again, her admittedly mediocre guitar playing fades away, replaced by the shocking beauty of her voice. She’s singing “Make You Feel My Love” by Adele. The original is simple and powerful, just the piano and Adele’s unique voice. When Nell sings it, she takes it and twists it, makes it haunting and sad and almost country-sounding. She sings it low in her register, almost whispering the words.
 

And she sings it to me.
 

Which makes no sense whatsoever. But still, she watches me as she sings, and I can see the years of pain and guilt in her gaze.
 

She still blames herself. I always knew she did, and hoped time would cure her of that, but I can see, without having even spoken to her, that she still carries the weight. There’s darkness in this girl, now. I almost don’t want to get involved. She’ll hurt me. I know this. I can see it, feel it coming. She’s got so much pain, so many cracks and shards and jags in her soul, and I’m going to get cut by her if I’m not careful.
 

I can’t fix her. I know this too. I’m not going to try. I’ve had too many goody-goody girls hook up with me, thinking they can fix me.
 

I also know I’m not going to stay away. I’m going to grab onto her and let myself get cut. I’m good at pain. I’m good at bleeding, emotionally and physically.
 

I let her sing. I don’t join in, I just give her the moment, let her own it. The crowd whistles and claps and tosses dollars into her open guitar case.
 

Now she waits, watches. My turn. I know I have to choose my song carefully. We’re establishing a dialogue, here. We’re having a conversation in music, a discussion in guitar chords and sung notes and song titles. I strum nonsense and hum, thinking. Then it comes to me:

“Can’t Break Her Fall” by Matt Kearney. It speaks to me, and it’s unique, a song people will remember. And I know she’ll hear me, hear what I’m not saying when I sing it. The half-sung, half-rapped. The verses tell such a strong, vivid story, and suddenly I can see her and I in the lyrics.

She listens carefully. Her gray-green gaze hardens, and her teeth snag her lip and bite down hard. Oh yeah. She heard me. I catch the tremble in her hand when she sets her guitar in the case, zips it closed and tries not to stumble as she runs from me. Her braid trails behind her, bouncing between her shoulder blades, and her calves flash pale white in the New York sunlight. I let her go, finish the song, two more chords, then I click the guitar case closed and jog after her. Across the street, Yellow Cabs honking impatiently, city noise, and then down to a subway. She swipes a card and struggles with the turnstile, guitar held awkwardly by the handle. She swipes the card again, but the turnstile won’t budge and she’s cursing under her breath. People are lining up behind us, but she’s oblivious to them, to me mere inches away. She tosses her head, stops struggling, takes a deep breath. At that moment, I reach past her, swipe my own card and gently push her through the gate. She complies as if in a daze, lets me take her guitar from her and slip the straps over my shoulder, holding my own hard-case by the handle. The palm of my free hand cups her lower back, prompts her onto the waiting subway car. She doesn’t look me, doesn’t question that it’s me. She just knows. She’s breathing deeply still, gathering herself. I let her breathe, let the silence stretch. She won’t turn in place to look at me, but she leans back, just slightly, her back brushing my front. She doesn’t put her weight against me, merely allows a hint of contact.